Like waves storming over the sea's surface, the unevenness of the cracks in the road shake the wagon; the wheels recoiling off the stones; the tremors disturbing the peace of the two passengers on-board.
'Sao wake up. We're almost there.'
Being stirred, both physically and mentally, awakens Sao, his eyes peeking through lashes to see the unfiltered light burst onto his retinas, splitting to a triad of parties, all unique and fighting for dominance. The snowfields come to and out of focus as the colours blinding white that they had ploughed through shrinks under the scorching heat, wilting some trees who remain clothed, the ever-greens replaced by palm leaves, waving goodbye to the snow, dancing to mock their less fortunate relatives. Conscious of their pride, the ever-greens scowl back at the palm trees with their emerald needles. Why should they listen to free loaders? The life of a worker is nothing if they do not work, they should make sacrifices to live the perfect life.
The palm trees form two distinct lines, split by a dirt trail. Dirt turns to cobble, which turns into polished stones shaved of the slightest jaggedness to level off their inequality, so blatantly. Laid out in regiments of seven stones in a row, the columns stretching too far to count. The trees wall off the side of the road like security guards, their branches reaching out, conjoining together into a railing of green. Who does it protect? A wasteland littered with shacks, shanties, slums; a slumtropolis, populated by figurines in tattered sheets who roam between the mud-wood huts that sink into the sand if rain were to appear, which it rarely did. Dust floured their faces, hands hardened by the lack of nutrition. People built from the world; people built from the sand.
Rising above the horizon of invaluable minerals emerges a palace of jewels. A garden of envious green mirroring those of Babylon acts as a bed for the gem. The palace grounds are the only thing without a dust cover, allowing the star rubies, blood diamonds, fire opals to smirk at the underlings, the spire completed with the tip of sunstone at the top, scouting down the path which guides the palace's guests. The guests? That would be the wagon with its passengers: Sao, Akuma, and gold from the mountains of Gullhvit.
The wagon nears the entrance; the statue of an ancient warrior, of Macedonian descent, armed with shield and sword – pointing towards the clouded sky –, splits in two as the gate it finalizes makes way for the people for hire. The garden, flooding the passengers' views, is yet to be traversed before one can claim to be in the palace. A maze amazes with its grandeur, its vastness, the million different patterns which could have been created but was not, and the ones that were, the dead ends that only the gardeners have discovered. Flowers of burgundy and violet make themselves prominent in the chaos; they are all that matters, they're all one's eyes want to see, trapping trespassers in a trance for the guards to capture. At its centre, a fountain of wine spews eternally; enough to quench everyone's thirst.
The maze is long and strenuous except the wagon driver seemed to have a knack for always taking the right turning.
It is impossible to conceive the palace's wonder until luck brings forward the front door. Everyone in the past has seen these doors. Everyone (who will be in the past) will see these doors too.
'Sao, we've made it.' Akuma says to a sitting up Sao.
They open, releasing a glow – a second sun – printing two shadows onto the objects that bask in the light. From this light, a male silhouette made itself known; arms open, a cane in his right, a top hat to cap off his outfit.
'Welcome, welcome, you must be worn. Come inside and rest to your heart's content, until business calls, of course,' a strong, rich voice reaches.
Twenty men come marching out, regimental, ordered, robotic. They help Sao and Akuma out of the wagon; they carry in the bags, the coats, even Akuma is lifted and brought inside like a float. As he drifts through the palace doors, a chandelier's many branches flicker fire; a base of silver (probably a tungsten coating) glittered with amethyst. The walls bloom paintings, three of which catch Akuma's eye. The first contains a small child – a boy – in rags with a black eye, busted lip, a shaved head, standing in a white-nothingness, alone; the second pictures a man, staring into a mirror, his reflection facing away from him, hung with a noose, alone; the final is a man, holding a dead boy in his arms, surrounded by complete darkness, alone.
The silhouette stands beside Akuma and the group of soldiers which have put Akuma down, 'Ah, taking a liking to my paintings, I see. There are many more on these walls than you could believe.'
His face is much easier to describe once he stands under light, instead of in front of it. On top of the hat, the man wears a gold waistcoat and tie over a plain white buttoned shirt. He bears few wrinkles – a couple on his forehead – on clean, tanned skin glowing as vividly as the gems he hordes. 'A pleasure to meet you, I am Alexander Monterey. You will be working for me for the time being.'
'Akuma, at your service!' Akuma responds, flinging his arm up to form a salute (just as Sao taught him over many, many, stressful nights).
'Polite and disciplined. I am to presume the boy is yours?'
Sao nods as he walks, towards Sao's customer, with manufactured steps. 'I don't like to stall, with all respect, sir. May we discuss the matter now?'
'Why with such innocent ears listening? We may discuss this now, but let the boy go for a scout.'
'Uh, if you wish, sir.'
Sao continues his manufactured walk closer to Akuma, leaning down to whisper, 'Do not leave this palace under any condition. Got it!'
'Yeah, I get it.'
'And don't go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. We are here to do a job, not a field trip.'